There’s a beach where we used to live

windswept, with dark green entrails of seaweed,

crushed shells and thick rivers of rocks.

Dark green, fertile rich woods

hem the beaches

and the bitter north winds

come riding across the sea to greet us saltily.

 

It is a not-so-secret secret place,

like the tumbledown old hospital

still alive with the echoes

of the mad, the tuberculosis ridden,

like the secret place in my heart,

we’re all waiting for you to come home.

 

I lay the table, with it’s faded tartan runner

and some tarnished silver

and I think about the lemon drops

and the faded carpets of the narrow

ferry hallways,

they’re all still there

but we’re not…anymore.

 

I love him in the daytime,

and I lie, lie, lie,

knowing I should burn these words

riddled with sentimentality

my own tuberculosis.

 

Some weaker spirit

would say I love you still,

but I wrap the blanket of deceit

tighter, till it chokes me,

like a madness,

and I call it nostalgia instead.